


Working Things Out

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Mundane, BAMF Phil Coulson, Daddy Kink, First Time, Getting Together, Gyms, Insecure Clint, Insecure Phil, Kink Discovery, M/M, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is a personal trainer. Phil is his new client. Clint might be showing him how to work out, but Phil's got something to teach Clint about himself, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working Things Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdamantSteve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/gifts).



> for Adamantsteve, my birthday triplet. I saw this fic wish on your tumblr, and it spawned a plotbunny. Happy (belated) birthday, and I hope you like it!
> 
> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing with it.
> 
> Thanks to all of Feelschat for all their help, feedback, and cheerleading. You guys were awesome, as always.
> 
> This fills the "Alternate Universe - Mundane" square on my Trope Bingo Round 2 Card, and the "FREE" square on my Kink Bingo Round Six card, which I am converting to Ageplay (Daddy Kink).
> 
> **Please note: I have exaggerated the age difference between Clint and Phil for this fic. Clint is late 20s, early 30s, Phil is mid 40s.**

 

Sprawling at the sticky table, Clint stares mindlessly at the break room TV, which is showing ridiculous sports pundits who think they're experts. Natasha is stretching on the little mat in the corner, preparing for the Zumba class she has next, and Bruce is eating something with far too much brown rice and way too many lentils, the bright glow of his tablet reflected in his glasses. His next class -- Couples Yoga -- starts when Nat's Zumba class ends.

Clint sneaks a listless glance at his phone. His break is almost over; his first session with a new client starts in just over five minutes. The phone vibrates in his hand with a text, startling him.

_Hi, Clint, this is Phil Coulson, your new client. I apologize, but I'm running about five to ten minutes late. I won't make a habit out of this, I swear._

Clint snorts and drops his phone on the table, shaking his head. Nat and Bruce both glance over at him.

"New client is running late," he says, with a roll of his eyes.

"That bodes well," Bruce says dryly, and Clint nods and prepares for three months of late and missed appointments, or however long this Phil's contract is.

He picks up the phone again and marvels at the text for a moment, at its perfect spelling, grammar, and punctuation. Who texts like that?

_No problem,_ he texts back, taking care to spell things out properly. _Just meet me at the training desk near the back of the gym._

"Showtime," Natasha lilts, stealing a bite of Bruce's dinner and a sip of Clint's Powerade as she glides out the door and into the gym.

Clint sighs. Seriously, if he has to listen to these idiots yammer on about PEDs one more time, he's going to throw something through the TV. He decides to wait for his tardy new guy at the training desk. At least he can people watch there.

"You want me to turn this off?" he asks, and Bruce nods absently, lost in whatever he's reading.

The gym is packed at this time of night, everyone from teenagers to retirees getting their workouts in. Finding machines and weight benches for his new client is going to be a bitch. Whenever the guy shows up.

Thor and Steve are both at the desk, finishing up with their current clients and scheduling new appointments. Thor's client is a woman in her early twenties who is flirting shamelessly with him, earning her a broad smile but no more than that. Clint knows Thor's girlfriend Jane is enrolled in Nat's Zumba class, and she may be small, but she's a tiny badass.

Steve is talking earnestly to his client, an older guy he's been training for months -- earnest is the only way Steve knows how to be -- but he's sneaking glances off to the side where his best friend Bucky waits, drenched with sweat after his workout, the left sleeve of his t-shirt hanging empty. People keep looking at him and inching away, like losing limbs is contagious, but Bucky ignores them easily.

Bucky's watching Steve ramble on about protein supplements with a fond smile on his face, and Clint really wishes those two would just fuck already -- the UST is making the air hazy and hard to breathe.

"Hey, Buck," he says as he tucks his phone in his pocket and stores his Powerade under the desk. He pops a piece of gum in his mouth as Bucky nods at him, acknowledging his greeting.

The woman flirting with Thor finally gives up, realizing she's not getting anywhere, and sulks off to the locker room.

"Done for the day, man?" Clint asks him, and Thor shakes his head.

"Nay. I have no client for the next half an hour, though."

"Mmm. Mine's late."

"It is a new client, is it not?"

Clint rolls his eyes and nods, and Thor frowns.

Before he can say anything, a man in a gorgeous navy pinstriped suit strides up to the desk, his gait sure and businesslike, a duffel bag and garment bag in one hand. Clint nearly swallows his gum.

The man is average height and average build, brown hair thinning on top, and he should be completely unremarkable, but something about him screams competence. His shoulders are broad in the really, really nice suit, his eyes are a beautiful blue, and there are laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth.

Basically, he is everything Clint wants, all packaged in a very, very nice suit.

He doesn't know whether to pray this is his new client, or not his new client, because if so it's going to be tough to maintain his professionalism.

The man glances from Thor to Clint to Steve. "Is one of you Clint?"

Uncrossing his arms, Clint steps forward, giving his best professional smile and trying his best not to make it flirty like it wants to be. "I'm Clint. You must be Phil."

Phil shifts his bags to his left hand and reaches out to shake. "I'm so sorry. I'm usually very punctual, but there was a mix-up and I underestimated the traffic. I assure you it won't happen again."

His grip is firm, his skin is warm, and if Clint is not mistaken, those are gun calluses. He swallows roughly. He knows he should let go, but he really, really doesn't want to. And Phil doesn't seem to mind.

Finally, he forces himself to let go. "It's no problem," he says with a grin.

"Not the best first impression," Phil says, and his lips quirk in the tiniest of grimaces. "I can't guarantee I won't have to cancel our appointments for work-related reasons in the future, but rest assured, I'll give you more than five minutes of notice."

They haven't broken eye contact since they started talking, and yeah, okay, Clint feels secure enough to say it -- the sparks aren't only on his side. Phil's sessions are going to be torture. He clears his throat.

"Okay, well, why don't you go get changed, since I'm pretty sure that's not your workout gear."

Phil laughs and shrugs his shoulders so the suit settles firmly on them. "Okay, I'll just be a minute."

"You know where the locker rooms are?" Clint asks as Phil turns away, and the man turns halfway back to smile over his shoulder.

"Learned it during my walk through orientation, thanks."

Clint doesn't even try not to watch his ass in the suit as he walks away. As soon as the man turns into the locker room, he falls into the chair Thor has vacated and resists the urge to fan himself like a Southern Belle in a melodrama.

There is silence around him and he realizes that Bucky, Thor, and Steve are all grinning at him.

With a groan, he folds his arms on the desk and drops his head into them. "Shut up."

His friends won't tease him here in the open gym, but he is in for some serious shit the next time he's in the break room. So the only solution is to _never go in the break room again_.

Thor claps him on the shoulder, which kinda hurts, 'cause the dude is huge.

"Not the arms," he complains, and Thor laughs and then wanders off to re-rack errant free weights -- just an excuse to watch Jane doing her Zumba, Clint knows.

"We're off," Bucky tells him, a wicked grin on his face. "Have fun. Have _a lot_ of fun."

"Be careful," Steve adds, because of course, he is the responsible, professional one. Getting involved with -- or even crushing on -- a client is _never_ a good idea.

Clint drops his head back into his arms and ignores them. As soon as they're gone, he sits back up and does his best to look completely professional. The world's best trainer. He doesn't even know _why_ Phil signed up for training -- from the way he fills out that suit, he certainly doesn't need it!

His resolve to remain perfectly professional and nothing but lasts as long as it takes Phil to re-emerge from the locker room. He is dressed in a simple dark t-shirt and basketball shorts, a brace on his left knee. As he walks closer, Clint spies a hint of ink on his well-defined left bicep, which becomes clearer as he gets closer.

An Army Ranger tattoo. That's it, he's done. _Completely_ done.

He shoves down the urge to trace the tattoo with his tongue and comes out from behind the desk, waving for Phil to follow him. "We'll just head over to the stretching mats. Your session will be a little bit short today, but that's all right, we're really just discussing your goals and doing some quick assessments."

The mats are full, of course, since the gym is packed, but just as Clint's about to turn around and find somewhere else to sprawl out, Bobbi's client finishes her set and the two of them get up, clearing a spot.

He sits and pats the mat, watching Phil gingerly ease himself down. He's very cautious with the knee in the brace, hiding a wince, and when he sits, he stretches it out straight in front of him instead of folding it to sit with his legs crossed.

"So I take it the knee is why you're here."

Phil nods, absently rubbing it. "Well, partially. I injured it about eight months ago at work, and it never really healed. I had surgery about six weeks ago, and I've finished physical therapy on it, but I'm looking for ways to strengthen it. And I haven't been able to really work out properly with it injured, so I'm hoping that working with a trainer will help me get back into better overall shape."

From what Clint can see, he's in _damn_ fine shape already, and getting him into better shape might just kill Clint. He thinks for a minute, forming and dismissing several sets and plans in his head. "Okay, well, here's what we can start with..."

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Clint is stretching in the break room, touching his toes and bouncing back up to reach over his head. Natasha glances over at him once, and then again, her eyebrow raised, before she picks up one of the half a dozen Stark's Gym branded stress balls that litter the table and throws it at him.

"Will you calm down?"

"I'm in trouble, Nat. So much trouble. So much."

"What is your problem?"

"Okay, so a crush on a client wouldn't be so bad, right? We've all had those. But I think he's interested in me, too. That's a bad idea, right?"

She stares at him as though he's an idiot, and okay, maybe he is.

"Which client is this?"

"New client. His name is Phil. I don't know what he does, we didn't get around to that, but whatever he does, he does it in really nice suits. And shit, I'm going to be late for his session," he says and scrambles out the door.

Nat follows him, catching the door before he lets it slam. She doesn't have another class for a couple of hours, he knows, and now that she's aware of his stupidity, he can bet that she'll be lurking around the edges of his session with Phil, watching them both closely.

This is their third session. The remainder of their first session and the second session only served to fan the sparks between them, and now he really feels guilty for thinking mean thoughts about Steve and Bucky and their epic UST, because the tension between him and Phil is really, really going to kill him.

The memory of Phil at the end of their last session, his skin flushed and slick with sweat, is not helping.

And as if he conjured the image up by brain power alone, Phil jogs carefully down the stairs from the second floor, where all the cardio equipment is located. He's wiping a fine sheen of sweat off his face with his towel, and his face is flushed from his exertion.

Client. Phil is a _client_.

"Hi," Phil says, and Jesus, he's a little out of breath, and God help Clint.

He sees Nat out of the corner of his eye, and she is watching them, her eyes narrowed, and that helps settle him a little. Only a little, though.

"Ready?" he says with a grin, and Phil nods.

He is so busy telling himself not to be distracted by Phil that he is distracted as hell, and it's not until Phil grunts and tries to hide a wince as Clint is helping him stretch out his knee that Clint realizes if he doesn't get his shit together, he is going to _hurt Phil_ , and that is not okay.

No matter what else might be flying between them, Phil is _paying him_ to do a job, and he's acting like a horny teenager.

Clint's a certified trainer, and a damn good one -- all his clients will tell you that -- and he's going to be the best trainer he can be for Phil. And if it goes somewhere off the job, well, that's different. But first, he's got to do the job he's getting paid to do.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

"So what exactly is it that you do?" Clint asks a few sessions later, while Phil is doing crunches for him. Their last session was cancelled -- a couple days in advance, Phil kept his word -- due to an unavoidable work conflict, Phil had said.

Phil glances up at him. "Don't lose count," he admonishes breathlessly.

Clint rolls his eyes. "Weren't you on ten?"

"Forty five -- screw you -- forty six..." Phil says, and Clint laughs. "Forty eight, and that's classified," he adds, and then he hits fifty and stops, sitting up and grabbing for his towel and his water bottle.

Clint blinks. "Really?"

Phil stares at him as he drinks deeply. "You believe me? People usually laugh and roll their eyes and assume I'm an accountant with delusions of grandeur."

"Well, you might be an accountant with delusions of grandeur, I don't know, but I'm betting most people don't know about the gun calluses or see the Ranger tattoo, or the muscles you hide under those very nice suits."

Phil is still staring at him, and Clint feels his cheeks go pink. "Um, let's pretend I just stopped at 'Really?'"

Taking another drink, Phil shrugs. "If that's what you want," he says easily. "We can do that. No, what I do isn't classified. Anymore. I'm a security consultant."

Clint points at the weight bench, and Phil settles on it, waiting for Clint to give him the go signal. He grunts as he starts his set of incline presses, muscles straining.

"Security consultant. Is that another word for rent-a-cop?" Clint asks.

"Screw you," Phil says again, still breathless, and Clint laughs once more. "What are yours from?"

Clint has no idea what that means. "My what?"

"Your calluses. They're not gun calluses. Shit -- "

Clint steadies the barbell. "Come on, two more. Two is easy."

"Right..."

"I'm an archer," he says, grinning as Phil powers through the last two presses and racks the barbell with a clang.

He sits up on the bench, taking the towel that Clint hands him. "What, like Robin Hood?"

Clint grins. "Not usually the reference I get these days, but we'll go with it. Yeah, like Robin Hood."

He points to the floor, and Phil groans and gets back down for another set of crunches.

"Is it a hobby?"

"Started out as one, yeah, but I'm, uh... I'm competing now."

"Ten, eleven, you any good?"

"Screw you," Clint says, and Phil laughs.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

"Friday again?" Phil asks at the end of his session a couple of weeks later, and Clint realizes, that no, this time, he's the one who's gonna have to cancel.

"Ah, no, I think we're going to have to put it off until next week, I'm sorry. I can schedule you with a different trainer for a fill-in session, if you want. I've got, uh, a competition this weekend."

"I'll wait for you, thanks. Archery?"

"No, cupcake baking," Clint snarks, and Phil grins.

"Multiple hobbies are a good thing. Seriously, though... wait, what do I say for an archery competition? Good luck? Break a leg?"

"If I break my leg, I'm totally blaming you."

Phil claps him on the shoulder. "Good luck," he says with a sincere smile that kind of takes Clint's breath away a little, and he heads up the stairs toward the cardio equipment at a jog.

"Phil!" Clint calls, and the man stops halfway up, turning to look at him.

"I just... you're doing great. You got the brace off, and your mobility is excellent. Just wanted to tell you that, uh, great job."

"Thanks, Clint, but really, it's all due to you. You kick my ass, every time, so... thanks."

Clint tosses him a lazy salute, and then grins sheepishly when he remembers the tattoo. Phil rolls his eyes and continues up the stairs to finish his cool down. Clint tries not to stare these days, but he can't help himself sometimes, and he lets himself watch Phil's ass as the man powers up the stairs.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

"First place," is the first thing Clint says to Phil when the man walks up to the training desk the following Tuesday, and he tries not to think about the fact that Phil is the only client he's told about his archery. All of his coworkers know, but his archery is not something he shares with his clients. But Phil is... different.

The proud smile Phil shoots him is proof of it. It's very nearly possessive, and it makes Clint's heart pound.

"Excellent! What's next?"

"Nationals, and a shot at the Olympic team," Clint says breezily, like this isn't what he's been working toward for years now.

Phil blinks. "What, really?"

"Told you I was good," Clint says smugly.

"No, you didn't. I asked if you were good and you said, 'screw you.'"

"Just for that, we're adding five pounds to everything today."

Phil groans.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

The weeks pass quickly and soon, just over two months of Phil's three month contract is gone. Clint knows he's supposed to start making noise to get Phil to renew, but honestly, he's not sure if he wants to. He could suggest another trainer for Phil, which would free them up for... other interaction but, well, he doesn't want that, either. He doesn't want anyone else's hands on Phil.

They are working on front squats in the free weight area -- Phil is still babying his knee and Clint is doing his damnedest to get him to stop already, it's healed, Phil, and it's strong, Jesus, stop wimping out -- when the two guys next to them start arguing over who knows what, their voices quickly rising to a shout.

Phil quickly racks the weights and Clint can see him assessing the situation. Clint's about to tell him not to worry about it, it's just idiots, happens all the time, when one of them pulls a knife from somewhere.

"Ho shit," Clint mutters.

This dude and his friends have caused problems before -- Clint can tell, by the way they work out and the way they look, that they're using something, and if the dude with the knife is dealing with 'roid rage, things could get really fucking messy really fucking quick.

The guy with a knife lunges at his friend, who stumbles backward and falls over a flat bench, yelping as he lands on his ass. He is still scuttling backwards on his ass when Phil grabs one of the little two and a half pound free weights and flings it like a discus. It hits the dude's wrist with a sickening crack and the knife goes flying to clatter harmlessly into the corner of the gym.

Clint is still blinking in shock when he realizes that Phil has _taken the guy down_ somehow, despite being just about half his size. He has him pinned on his stomach between two of the benches, his arms pulled up behind his back, right wrist cocked at really a kind of gross angle.

The guy is bellowing like a wounded bull and trying to throw Phil off, and it's only when he sees Steve and Thor running across the gym that Clint snaps out of it.

It takes all of the male trainers and several of the members -- including Phil and a couple of the moron's friends -- to keep him down until the cops get there.

The adrenaline finally wears off as Clint sits at the training desk watching Phil calmly give his statement to the police. He's exhausted suddenly, and he didn't even do anything. But he has time to think about it now, and he realizes that not only did Phil quickly find a way to disarm the guy before anyone (except knife guy himself) got hurt, but he calculated the angle of his weapon to deflect the knife to the empty corner of the gym, keeping anyone else from getting hurt by it. In seconds.

It's without a doubt the hottest thing Clint's ever seen in his life.

He watches Phil and the officer exchange business cards, and then Phil catches his eye and points to the locker room. 

"I'm going to change," he mouths, and Clint nods.

Then, glancing around the nearly empty gym -- the cops cleared it as they gathered statements -- Clint comes to a decision and scrambles after Phil.

The locker room is empty when he hurries into it, and he can see Phil in the mirror along the counter, at the bank of lockers in the far corner. Striding quickly toward him, Clint grabs his arm just as he's about to reach for the hem of his shirt. Hands gripping Phil's biceps, he shoves Phil against the locker and kisses him.

Phil tenses, and Clint has just enough time to realize that surprising the guy who took out a knifewielding dude with 'roid rage is maybe not his best idea ever before Phil _melts_ against him, mouth opening under his, arms sliding up to hold him close.

The tiny, needy sound Phil makes in the back of his throat pulls a groan from Clint, and he presses closer, Phil's body firm against his as he angles his head to deepen the kiss even more.

The sane, responsible part of Clint makes a last ditch effort, screaming, _What the hell are you doing? You're in the damn locker room, this could cost you your job!_ and he forces himself to pull back.

Phil is panting and flushed, his eyes wide and dark, lips slick, and Clint freezes, wanting to keep this picture forever, wanting to see it as often as he possibly can.

"Have dinner with me," he says, a little embarrassed by how husky his voice comes out.

Phil blinks, and then he smiles, but it's a small smile, a tight smile, and Clint hates it. It looks... apologetic.

"I don't... I don't think that's the best idea," Phil says quietly, letting go of where he's had his arms wrapped around Clint.

Clint goes cold, shame flooding in. Apparently he's good enough to kiss, good enough to stare at and flirt with, but not good enough to have dinner with.

"Oh," he says dumbly. "O...okay. Um... never mind, it's cool."

He turns and leaves the locker room, ignoring Phil calling his name behind him.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Clint is sitting in the break room three days later, rolling one of the Stark's Gym stress balls on the table between his hands, when Natasha sits across from him and snatches it away.

"Spill," she demands. "You've been moping for days."

He sighs and slumps back into his chair, not even having the energy to deny it. "I think I fucked everything up."

Her eyebrow goes up a fraction. "Which everything are we talking about?"

"I kissed Phil."

She sighs and throws the ball at his head. It bounces off his forehead and lands on the floor.

"I know, okay? I know. But there was a dude with a knife and Phil was a badass, and..." he trails off, shrugging miserably.

Nat hums, well aware of the story since it's all anyone's been talking about for days. "So... he didn't kiss back?"

"Oh, no, he kissed back." Clint laughs tiredly and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Then I stupidly went and asked him out."

Hunching his shoulders at the memory of Phil's apologetic smile, he stares at her. "What the hell was I thinking? He's a college educated veteran, and a partner in one of the most respected, multi-million dollar security firms in the country."

Clint's done some googling, and boy did he kick himself when he realized he'd called the COO of SHIELD Security a rent-a-cop.

"So?" Nat says, her voice tight and defensive. "He doesn't eat dinner?"

"Nat, I'm a high school dropout gym rat. What the fuck would he want with me?"

Her eyes flare with anger. "He said that to you?"

Clint shrugs again. "He didn't have to. And I've got four more sessions and they're going to be awkward as hell. One of them starts in five minutes," he finishes with a sigh.

"Fuck him," Nat says angrily. "How dare he make you feel like you're not good enough?"

She stands, shoving back her chair, and Clint's eyes widen.

"Nat! Nat, no," he yelps grabbing her arm before she can storm out of the break room. He laughs as he pulls her into a hug. She struggles at first and then lets him, resting her head on his chest as she wraps her arms around him and squeezes back.

Her willingness to go toe-to-toe with Phil in his defense makes him feel lighter than he has in days. Phil might be a badass, but he'd bet everything he has on Nat in that encounter, tiny as she is.

"If that's really why he said no, then screw him," she says, still squeezing the breath out of him. "Toss him to someone else for the rest of his sessions and be done with him."

He nods sadly, brushing his cheek along the softness of her hair.

He doesn't want to. He wants things back the way they were, with flirting, and banter and Phil's tiny, wry smiles whenever he cracks a deadpan joke. Why did he have to fuck everything up the way he always does?

With one last squeeze, he lets go. "Time to face the music," he tells her with a kiss to her forehead. "I'll offer to schedule him with another trainer for the rest of his sessions."

"If he hurts you again, I'm kicking his ass," she says as he reaches the door.

"Thanks, Nat. Love you too."

He can see Phil standing at the training desk as soon as he leaves the break room. Taking a deep, bracing breath, he crosses the gym.

"Hey," he says hesitantly, avoiding Phil's eyes.

"I need to talk to you," Phil says immediately, and Clint takes a moment to study him.

He looks like hell. His face is pale and the circles under his eyes match the ones under Clint's. The little smile always playing at the corners of his mouth is gone, his lips in a thin, flat line.

Steve breaks off from talking to his client and glances over, a concerned look on his face. Clint waves him off and nods at Phil, his dry throat clicking as he swallows.

The gym is busy and there really isn't anywhere private for them to talk. He glances around and spies a group leaving one of the glassed-in racquetball courts. Moving in that direction, he gestures for Phil to follow. He grabs a couple of mats and drags them in, shutting the door behind them. The noise of the gym is instantly muffled, leaving only awkward silence.

They each sit on a mat, and Clint notes with pride the easy way Phil sits, no awkwardness or caution with his recently injured knee.

"I'm sorry, Clint," Phil says instantly, and Clint shrugs, staring down at the mat

"There's nothing for you to apologize for," he says. "There's a line, and I crossed it. I was unprofessional, and I apologize."

"Clint -- "

"There are several other trainers I trust, who will take care of you. I know you don't have many sessions left, but I can -- "

"Clint! Stop, please," Phil entreats, leaning forward to touch his knee, and Clint trails off. "Will you look at me? Please?"

Reluctantly, Clint looks up. Phil is staring at him, blue eyes filled with pain and regret, worried lines creasing his forehead. Phil sighs.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I never meant to hurt you, and it's obvious I have."

"It's okay -- "

"No, it's not! Look, it wasn't a rejection -- "

"Sure felt like one," Clint says wryly, and Phil closes his eyes.

"Adrenaline makes things screwy. I didn't want you to commit to something you'd regret later once you had a chance to think about it. That's all."

Clint stares at him. What? No. That doesn't make any sense. He... "You think that I -- you think I kissed you and asked you out to dinner 'cause I was on an adrenaline high?"

Phil raises an eyebrow. "Weren't you?"

Clint shrugs. "Well, yeah, but all that did was give me the balls to do what I've wanted to do for months now."

Phil is staring at him in surprise, and Clint huffs out a breath. "C'mon, Phil, we've been flirting since your first session. Oblivious, you're not."

"No," Phil says thoughtfully, "I know, but... Clint, you flirt with everyone."

Clint opens his mouth to defend himself, and then shuts it, because, well, Phil's right, he does. But it's... _different_ with Phil, and he thought Phil knew that. There's been an almost visible charge between them, since the moment they met.

"So you only turned me down for dinner because you thought I'd regret it later," he says. "Not 'cause you weren't interested."

"Uninterested?" Phil says with a laugh. "Have you looked in a mirror lately? Jesus, Clint."

That doesn't exactly make Clint feel better. "I knew you were interested in that part," he mumbles with a shrug, looking down at his hands in his lap again. "I could tell by the way you kissed me back."

Phil touches his knee again. "Hey," he says softly. "I'm interested in all of you. Why wouldn't I be?"

Clint bites his lip and wishes he hadn't said anything, because now Phil won't leave it alone and then he'll realize that Clint's right about how bad a fit they are.

"Clint?"

"C'mon, Phil, it's not exactly like I'm anywhere near your league. You're a professional. You're, like, an _executive_. You wear a suit and a tie and you probably carry a briefcase, and I bet you speak like six languages."

"Five," Phil corrects absently, still frowning. "I don't understand how you think that puts me in a different league than you."

"I work in a gym, Phil," Clint says in a small voice. He takes a deep breath, his cheeks burning with humiliation. "I never even finished high school."

He looks up, not sure what he expects to see in Phil's eyes. Disgust, maybe. Contempt. Pity. All he sees is a kind of confused anger, Phil's brow furrowing like gathering storm clouds.

"I screwed this up so horribly," Phil says with frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "I never, ever, in any way meant to make you feel like you weren't good enough. You're a senior trainer, Clint. You're smart and insightful and amazing at what you do, and it's obvious to anyone who bothers to look how much you care about the health and well-being of your clients. You're a competitive athlete near the top of your sport -- what exactly about all of this is worthy of my disdain?"

Clint blinks at him, a surprised laugh breaking free. Having Natasha defend him was amazing enough, but this... Phil's anger on his behalf, it feels incredible.

"It really doesn't bother you? That I'm -- "

"I don't want to know what word you were planning to use there, because I'm sure that it's only going to make me angrier. Your lack of a formal education bothers me because it seems to bother you. It in no way lessens your worth in my eyes."

Clint sits very still to keep from tackling him and kissing him until neither of them can breathe. 

"It wasn't adrenaline," he tells Phil. "I want to have dinner with you. I want to kiss you again. I want more than that."

Phil swallows roughly. "Why? I mean... what can you possibly see in me, when..."

He looks away from Clint to look through the glass wall that separates them from the gym, and Clint follows his eyes, his gaze flitting over the dozens of hard bodies, glistening with sweat.

"I'm old and boring and losing my hair, and they're all so..." he trails off, watching Steve's muscles flex and bunch as he demonstrates something for his client.

Clint stares at Phil, at a loss for words. Phil has always seemed so confident, moving equally with ease in his suits or his workout gear, flirting back with a smile, deftly keeping his end of the banter going. Clint never would've guessed he felt this way. How can Phil not have realized what he does to Clint's concentration?

He guesses telling the man he's always had a thing for older guys isn't likely to make him feel better, so he says, instead, "You're _not_ old, Phil, and you're not boring. You're smart and sneaky, and funny, and a complete badass, and Jesus, how do you not know how hot you are?"

Phil frowns at him, like he thinks he's being made fun of, and Clint laughs in disbelief.

"I almost choked on my gum that first time you came to the training desk in that gorgeous suit, and no one -- _no one_ \-- has ever made me struggle to stay professional like you do! Do you know what you do to me when you're all flushed and sweaty and breathing hard? I'd show you just what if we weren't in this freaking fishbowl!" he finishes, waving at the glass wall.

Phil's cheeks are pink and he's blinking owlishly at Clint, his lower lip caught between his teeth. It's adorable and hot and Clint wants him so much he can't see straight.

"Have dinner with me," he says softly. "I won't ask again if you really don't want to."

"Let me take you to dinner instead," Phil counters. "It's the least I can do for screwing up so badly."

Clint eyes him warily. "This is a date, though, right? With the option of more if it goes well? Not just an apology dinner?"

"Oh, it's a date." Phil's grin has just a hint of the flirty ease it used to. Not enough, but it's a start.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Clint is standing at the mirror, screwing around with the spikes of his hair for the fortieth time, when his phone rings, and he jumps.

"Hello," he says, and really hopes his voice isn't as breathy as he thinks it is.

"Hello," Phil says, and Clint can hear the smile in his voice. "I'm downstairs. I can try to find -- "

"Don't worry about it," Clint tells him. "Parking's impossible in this neighborhood, if you try to find a spot to come up and collect me, we'll be late for our reservation. I'll be right down."

"See you soon, then," Phil says, and hangs up.

Clint slips his phone in his pocket and takes one last look in the mirror. Phil told him smart casual, and he hopes his slate gray button down and black jeans fits that okay. Phil's only ever seen him in his trainer's shirt and tracksuit pants -- he stops short, trying to imagine what Phil might be wearing.

He hasn't let himself think about it. He's seen Phil in his business suits and his workout gear, but nothing in between.

"And you never will if you don't move your ass, Barton," he mutters, and grabs his wallet and his keys.

He walks out the front door of his building and stops in shock. Phil is parked in the white zone directly in front of the building, standing by his car and waiting for Clint.

He and Phil have left the gym at the same time before, so he knows that Phil drives a nondescript dark sedan. This is not that car.

It's a gorgeous cherry red classic, gleaming in the early evening sun.

"Wow," he says.

Phil grins. "I don't take her out that often, but I figured this was a special occasion."

Oh, hey, speaking of gorgeous. Phil's wearing black slacks and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. He looks good enough to eat, and Clint wants to nip at the hollow at the base of his throat.

"You look fantastic," he says, and Phil ducks his head and smiles in the most adorable way.

Then he swallows roughly as Phil blatantly looks him up and down, eyes darkening.

"Thanks," Phil says. "You look amazing. That color makes your eyes look incredible."

Clint doesn't want to say that that's why Tasha told him to wear it, so he just shrugs and smiles and mumbles thanks.

Phil opens the passenger door for him, and Clint has to fight not to giggle, partly at the chivalrous gesture, and partly from nerves. He doesn't go on many proper dates, and Phil is clearly a gentleman.

He covertly checks to make sure he hasn't stepped in anything before he slides into the car.

The car purrs when it starts, and Clint can't take his eyes off Phil's satisfied smile at the sound.

"Is it new?" Clint asks when Phil pulls out into traffic. "I mean, obviously it's not new, it's a classic, but did you just get it?"

"No," Phil says, a little shortly, and then he glances apologetically away from the road and over to Clint. "No, she was my father's baby. And now she's mine."

He rubs a thumb fondly over the steering wheel.

Clint wonders about his defensiveness and then realizes people might have accused him of buying the car as a midlife crisis vehicle. _Poor Phil_ , he thinks with a grin. Out loud, he asks, "Should I be jealous of her?"

Phil smiles, eyes still on the road, and Clint's gaze lingers on the way it makes his eyes crinkle.

"No," he laughs. "I think maybe she should be, though."

He glances at Clint again, a mix of hunger and affection in his gaze, and Clint suddenly finds it a little hard to breathe.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

The restaurant is nice without being too formal -- Clint feels comfortable but not out of place. There is an older couple frowning at them from the next table, but Phil only smiles politely at them and ignores when they harrumph at him, so Clint doesn't let it bother him.

Phil confidently orders wine and appetizers for both of them, though he asks Clint if he's okay with that first, and Clint just nods and watches him converse knowledgeably with their server, discussing possible entrees and the specials before he picks something.

Clint had wondered if things were going to be first date awkward with Phil, but they're not. They end up talking about the same things they always talk about during Phil's sessions -- sports teams, TV shows, current events.

"So I've been wondering," Clint says, and Phil pauses with his wineglass halfway to his mouth, raising an eyebrow in query. "After last week, I'm pretty sure hurting your knee at work didn't involve, like, tripping over an open file cabinet drawer or something. What really happened?"

Phil takes a sip of his wine and shrugs in a carefully casual way. "There was a... disagreement between a client of ours and the employee we discovered was responsible for theft and embezzlement due to holes in the security protocols he'd designed. I was injured in the altercation."

"And the guy who injured you?"

Phil considers. "Got the worst of it."

"Injuries incurred while being a badass, pretty much what I figured," Clint says with a grin and then takes another bite of his grilled swordfish, humming with pleasure. "This is so good, you have to try it."

He forks up a bit and offers it to Phil, and then he realizes that maybe Phil doesn't want to eat off his fork. Before he can pull it back, Phil's fingers close around his wrist. Clint swallows, throat clicking, as Phil's lips close around the fork, his eyes falling shut as he tastes, lashes dark on his cheeks.

Phil offers him a bite of filet mignon in return, and yeah, there's something about eating off his fork, watching Phil watch him, that suddenly makes it very, very warm in the restaurant.

They are sharing a brownie sundae for dessert, when Phil licks a stray bit of hot fudge off his lip and says, "I have a little bit of a dilemma."

Clint has to wait a moment for his brain to come back online before he says, intelligently, "Oh?"

Phil hums in confirmation, and feeds him a bite of brownie. "My sessions are almost up. I was prepared to renew for another three months, but now I'm not sure. It feels... awkward to be paying to spend time with you."

Grinning, Clint spoons up some ice cream. "Too bad," he says teasingly. "I've always wanted a sugar daddy."

Phil doesn't laugh, and Clint swallows, nearly coughing when the ice cream goes down wrong. "Um, bad joke, never mind," he mumbles. "Pretty sure I'm not cut out to be someone's kept boy, anyway."

He glances up to see how badly he's fucked up, and he sets his spoon down with a click when he sees the dark, hungry look in Phil's eyes.

"Hmm," he says speculatively. "I don't think I could afford to keep a boy full time, but I wouldn't mind having one I could spoil every now and then."

And okay, Clint's always been attracted to men older than him, but he's never really played with anything like this, and he _never_ imagined how hot the thought of it could be. His breath comes a little shaky at the thought of being Phil's boy, of being _Phil's_.

Without looking away from Clint, Phil signals for the check.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

The drive home is quiet, charged in a way that things haven't been between them since that very first meeting. Clint's knee is jumping as he bounces his foot nervously, and Phil takes a hand off the gear shift to squeeze it, to settle it.

"So, like, two months of sessions at three sessions a week at half an hour a session, that's what twelve hours that we've spent together? That's three or four dates, right? I mean -- "

"Clint," Phil says, interrupting his nervous babble. "Would you like to come home with me for the night?"

"God, yes."

'Home' turns out to be an actual house, a tiny little house on a neat little lot with a cute little garage that Phil pulls into. There's an honest to God picket fence, and it is so far away from the grubby walk-up he shares with Nat. It is everything Clint has ever wanted in his life, and he bites his lip hard to keep from blurting that out on their _very first date_ , Jesus, Barton, you dummy, what is wrong with you?

Phil comes around to open his door, and Clint steps out and lets him close it, and then crowds him against it, hands on Phil's shoulders. He smells so good, something earthy or woodsy, and Clint nuzzles at his neck for a minute, breathing it in before his lips find Phil's.

He kisses back with abandon, licking at Clint's lips until they open with a gasp, one hand curved at the back of Clint's neck, the other splayed across Clint's back, the heat of it perfect through Clint's thin shirt. Phil tastes of red wine and chocolate and Clint wants to kiss him for the next five days or so, and then Phil's hands land on his waist, shifting him until they're aligned just right, and he groans at the feeling of the hard ridge of Phil's cock against his.

The garage is dark, but the door is open, and Clint pulls back at the sound of tires on pavement as a car glides by on the street. He rests his forehead against Phil's. Phil's hands are still on his waist, thumbs moving against Clint's body in tiny circles as their hips bump against each other.

"I don’t think the garage is what you had in mind," he murmurs, and Phil chuckles and shakes his head.

He reaches for his hand, tangling their fingers together as he leads Clint toward the house, and the sweetness of the gesture dazes Clint a little.

The back door enters on the kitchen, and Clint glances around as Phil flips on the light. It's tidy, well-used, but it doesn't feel too lived-in. Basic appliances, plain furniture, but he gets the feeling Phil doesn't spend a lot of time here.

"Would you like something to drink?" Phil thoughtfully offers, and Clint shakes his head. He doesn't know how to politely say, "I just want to get you naked and suck your cock," so he says nothing.

Maybe it shows in his eyes, because Phil locks the back door and hits a button on the wall that closes the garage, and then takes his hand again to lead him through the dark house.

"I'll give you a tour later," he says over his shoulder.

Then they're in Phil's bedroom, kicking off shoes, and Phil's pressing kisses along his cheeks and his jawline as he reaches for the buttons at Clint's collar. Clint groans and bares his neck to Phil's mouth, gasping as he laps at Clint's pulse point and then nips, worrying the skin gently with his teeth.

"Phil..." he moans, his usually sure fingers fumbling at the other man's belt buckle. He finally gets it open, sliding the leather free of the loops, and then he sinks to his knees, nosing at the hard line of Phil's cock beneath the softness of his slacks.

"Fuck," Phil gasps, his hands sliding to rest in Clint's hair -- gentle, always gentle, and Clint doesn't know how to tell him that he maybe doesn't need to be so gentle.

"Can I?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the ridge of Phil's cock, lips lingering against the warmth of it.

"If you must," Phil breathes on a laugh, and it drifts into a groan as Clint grins wickedly up at him before unfastening Phil's slacks with his teeth. He lowers the zipper by hand, reaching into Phil's boxers to palm the hot, heavy weight of him, wrapping one hand around the thick base. Phil swears roughly, hands tightening in Clint's hair before he mutters an apology.

"It's okay," Clint tells him, thumb sliding gently through the moisture glistening at the head of Phil's cock. "I don't mind."

Phil's hands tighten just a little in his hair and stay that way as Clint licks a stripe up the underside of Phil's cock and then takes just the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around him before taking him deeper. He hums around him and Phil groans again, hips twitching as he fights the urge to thrust into the wet heat of Clint's mouth.

"So good," Phil breathes. "Fuck, Clint, feels so good, you look so perfect there on your knees for me, such a good boy..."

He freezes, but Clint barely notices, eyes fluttering shut as he groans and takes Phil all the way down, his own cock hard and twitching in his pants at the words.

"Yeah?" Phil rasps. "You like that, do you? Wanna be my good boy?"

Clint never knew he did, but God he does, so much. Opening his eyes, he looks up at Phil watching him with dark, hungry eyes, nodding as he bobs his head on Phil's cock.

He slides his hand around the grip Phil's firm ass, urging him into movement, wanting to feel more of him, wanting him to let go.

"Clint, God, fuck!" Phil moans, hips pumping, and then his hands are sliding to Clint's shoulders, holding him steady as he pulls free with a slick pop.

Clint licks his lips, and asks, "Phil?" and the older man groans at the hoarse sound of it.

"So good, baby boy, but you keep it up, and this is gonna be over far too soon."

He reaches down a hand to help Clint to his feet, pulling him into his arms and into a kiss that's wet, and dirty, and perfect.

Still kissing, his hands busy undoing the rest of Clint's buttons, he backs Clint toward the bed, giving him a little push so he falls back onto it, sprawling.

Phil swiftly unfastens Clint's jeans and tugs them and his shorts down his legs, leaving them pooled on the floor at the foot of the bed. He climbs on the bed and onto Clint, both of them groaning as their cocks brush.

"How do you want me?" Clint asks against his lips, gasping as Phil takes his mouth in a quick kiss, nipping at his bottom lip.

"What do you want, sweet boy?"

Wrapping one leg around Phil's ass, Clint thrusts up, rubbing their cocks together again, and baring his neck for Phil's kisses.

"Want you to fuck me," he breathes out. "Please, Phil." He licks his lips, swallows roughly, and takes a deep, shaky breath. "P-please, Daddy. Fuck me."

Phil swears, his eyes darkening, pupils huge as he takes Clint's mouth in a hard kiss, hands in a bruising grip on Clint's arms. Clint has a stray thought that he's gonna have to wear the baggier shirt with the slightly longer sleeves at work for a few days, and then it's gone and there's nothing but the feeling of Phil on him, around him.

"If that's what you want, baby, that's what you'll get." He licks across Clint's collarbone and down, biting gently at the hard muscles of Clint's pecs, his shoulders, his biceps. "Such a beautiful boy. So gorgeous. Wanted you for my own since the first time i saw you standing there, these incredible arms crossed over this amazing chest. Didn't ever think..."

He trails off, pressing kisses along the ridges of Clint's abs and nosing at the soft hair that trails down to his cock.

"You too," Clint tells him, carding a hand through his hair. "God, you looked so good in that suit, you always look so good in your suits, just wanted you, wanted to be yours..."

Phil levers himself off the bed, and Clint bites back a whimper at the loss of contact as he watches Phil undress, carefully laying his clothes over the desk chair before picking Clint's clothes up off the floor and draping them there as well.

Phil's body isn't as hard or well-defined as Clint's, but Clint spends hours a day training and in the gym. It's still nothing to be ashamed of though, and a glimmer of professional pride sneaks in. Phil looks amazing.

"You look great, do you work out?" he asks with a grin, and Phil rolls his eyes at him before detouring into the bathroom. He comes back out, a strip of condoms in hand, and Clint's cock twitches at the sight. He grabs the lube out of the bedside table and then climbs back onto the bed again.

Phil spreads a hand on Clint's hip, thumb rubbing the hard ridge of bone there. Clint's cock is hard and aching, curving up toward his belly, and he cries out, eyes slipping shut when Phil takes it in his mouth, the other hand cradling his balls.

"Please, Phil, please, feels so good, please, Daddy, please, Phil, so good!" he babbles, fisting his hands in Phil's soft duvet so he won't tear at the older man's hair. "Oh, God!" he groans as a slick finger teases at the entrance of his hole, and he grunts as it slips in.

He forces his eyes open, raising his head, but the sight of Phil naked and flushed between his legs, eyes dark and hungry as he stares up at Clint, lips wrapped around his cock, is too much, and he drops his head back to the bed to stare at the ceiling.

"More, Daddy, please," he gasps, and it gets easier every time he says it. Phil says nothing, but another finger slips into him, pushing deep, stretching him, and he rocks into it as Phil thrusts them gently in and out of him.

His tongue teases at the head of Clint's cock and he presses a kiss to it as he pulls off Clint to take a breath. Clint risks another look. Phil is panting, his lips shiny and slick as he stares down at where his fingers move within Clint.

"Fuck, you're tight," he hisses, and Clint whines as he scissors them, stretching him wider. "Hot and tight and perfect. Gonna feel so good around my cock, Clint."

"Yes," Clint breathes, pushing back onto Phil's fingers. "Yes, feel so good for you. Please, Daddy. Fuck me."

Phil takes him deep again as a third finger slowly breaches him, and the stretch is so good, the slight burn all pleasure and no pain, and then Phil's fingers _twist_ , brushing his prostate, and he yells out, barely bringing a forearm to his mouth in time to stifle it. "Fuck! No, please, Daddy, gonna come, not yet, too much, please!"

Phil pulls back, grabbing the arm Clint has over his mouth and pulling it away to kiss his clenched fist. "Yell all you want, Clint, there's no need to hide it. I want to hear you when I make you fall apart."

Clint groans, cock twitching, and Phil says, "Come on, then, up you go, baby boy."

With a gentle slap to his naked thigh, he urges Clint up until he's kneeling on the bed. At Phil's nudges, he turns to face the wall, gripping the headboard with his hands, spreading his knees a little farther apart.

Phil kneels between his spread legs, and he bows his back into the heat of Phil's body, head falling back to rest on Phil's shoulder. Phil kisses his cheek, nuzzling his temple. 

"Such a good boy for me," he murmurs, and Clint's chest goes tight at the praise, he wants more of it, he wants to hear it always.

There's the sound of the condom wrapper tearing, the grunt and hiss as Phil rolls on it and spreads lube over himself. 

"Ready, gorgeous boy?"

"Been ready. _So ready,_ " he gasps. "Please, do it. C'mon, please, fuck me..."

"You don't have to beg, baby. You never have to beg."

He feels the blunt touch of Phil's cock against him, and then he's pressing in, groaning into Clint's ear, and it feels so good, he feels so full, Phil's cock is so hot, so perfect inside him, and his breath slides out in one long, desperate keen. He pushes back into Phil, knuckles white on the headboard as Phil drapes himself over Clint's back, one hand sliding across his chest and over his heart to hold him close, the other in a bruising grip at his hip.

"Phil," he gasps, long and drawn out, as Phil pulls back, and it punches a cry from him when he thrusts back in, hips snapping against Clint's with a hard slap.

"Fuck, Clint, you're so tight," he groans. "So hot and perfect around my cock, feels like you were made for me, my perfect boy..."

"Yes, yours, your boy, please, Daddy, fuck me!"

"So good, you're so good for me, so perfect, baby, come on," Phil pants, setting a punishing pace. Clint pushes back into him as much as he can, but mostly he just hangs on, crying out as Phil fucks him hard. Phil's teeth latch onto his neck, sucking deep, and it's going to leave a mark, but Clint doesn't care, he wants it, he wants to walk around with people knowing he's Phil's, he's Phil's boy...

"Please," he gasps, and the hand that's on Clint's chest slides down over his sweat slick stomach, fingers curving around Clint's aching cock, taking him in a sure grip, and he sobs out a breath, tugged between the feeling of Phil behind him, pounding deep into him, and the slick grasp of Phil's hand around his cock. He feels like he's going to fly apart, and then he does.

He comes with a broken wail that's part _Phil_ , part _Daddy_ , part _God_ , and he thinks they might all be one and the same.

Phil thrusts into him, fucking him through it, as he moans, "God, baby, so fucking good, gonna come, gonna come in your tight little ass."

His hips crash into Clint's once more and then he is still, head thrown back, muscles clenching as he comes with a long, low groan.

Clint shakily lowers his head to rest on his hands where they still grip the headboard. Phil is draped bonelessly over his back, panting into his neck, and he's heavy, but Clint doesn't want to move, doesn't want him to move.

Phil slips free with a grunt, collapsing to the side to lay on his back. With trembling hands, he urges Clint down to curl against him, his head on Phil's sweat slick chest, and Clint doesn't even care that he's lying in a wet spot. Phil removes the condom, ties it off, and drops it in the wastebasket beside the bed before tugging the duvet up to haphazardly cover them both. They're sweaty, and sticky, and they need a shower, but all Clint wants to do is cuddle, just for a minute.

Phil kisses his forehead, stroking his sweaty, trembling back.

"I think that went well," he says, his voice hoarse and a little unsteady. "What do you think, baby boy?"

Clint twitches at the words. He wasn't sure, wasn't sure if it was just a sex thing, wasn't sure what Phil wanted, if Phil wanted a boy just for sex, or if he wanted a boy to keep. He thinks he might be getting too close too fast, but he can't help himself, but it might be okay, because he thinks Phil might be falling right along with him. He smiles into Phil's chest, nosing at the dark curls, hints of gray here and there among them.

"Was perfect," he murmurs. "Just perfect."

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

** EPILOGUE: **

 

Clint pops a piece of gum in his mouth and tweaks the spikes of his hair just a little in the locker room mirror. The bruise Phil sucked into his neck is just visible at his collar, and he tugs his shirt aside, examining it. It's starting to fade, and he wonders when Phil will be able to give him another one.

These aren't thoughts he should be having at work, so he shoves them down. He's got a new client in a few minutes -- well, maybe a new client. This is his free tryout session to see if he wants to sign a contract. He came with a friend, but they wanted separate sessions, so Thor's got her.

He reaches the training desk, to see a man and a woman conversing in low voices. This must be them.

"Hi, Jasper? I'm Clint."

The smile Jasper throws him is flirty, and Clint smiles politely back. He's not gonna say he never flirts anymore -- he thinks that would be impossible for him -- but he's trying to be less flirty. He's in a relationship, and he doesn't want to fuck it up.

Thor takes his client -- Maria, she said her name was -- over to the mats, and Clint follows with Jasper.

"So, Jasper, tell me, what is it you're looking to get out of having a personal trainer?" he asks, starting with the standard spiel.

Jasper smiles at him again, dark eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "Oh, I don't know, I guess I just want to look hotter. Like you, y'know?"

Clint refrains from giving a frustrated sigh. Oh. It's going to be one of those sessions. He does a double take as he notices Maria watching him and Jasper instead of listening to Thor. He gives her a polite smile, and she jerks her head back in Thor's direction.

The session feels like it lasts forever. Every question he asks or assessment he does is met with a flirty answer and a coy smile from Jasper, and glares from Maria, even from across the gym, where Thor is doing his own assessments.

Finally, the half hour is up. Jasper and Maria both say they'll think about signing up, and he is watching them whisper quietly to each other in harsh tones when he hears a familiar voice coming down the stairs from the cardio loft.

"Jasper? Maria? What are you doing here?" Phil doesn't have a session today, but he's here doing his cardio and his off day workout. Jasper and Maria both freeze, staring at him with wide eyes -- obviously _they_ did not expect them to be here today... and it dawns on Clint, just as it clearly dawns on Phil.

They're here, checking on him. Checking him out, to see how he reacts to blatant come ons when Phil's not around. He thinks he should be angry, but as Phil grabs them both by the elbow and hauls them into the corner -- clearly to rip a piece off them -- he can only be amused, and thankful that Phil has friends who will take care of him.

Phil glances over at him, apology in his eyes, and Clint grins at him and waves it off. His next client jogs up to the desk, and he puts thoughts of letting Phil make it up to him out of his mind and focuses on her.

Still, as he wanders into the locker room after her session to take a leak, he can't help but think back on it. Then, from the sauna in the locker room, he hears Thor's booming voice, muffled only slightly by the thick sauna door.

"I would like to know, son of Coul, what your intentions toward our friend and colleague Clint are."

Clint groans and rests his head against the door. It's nice to know his friends care, too, he guesses. He listens carefully, hoping Phil's answer is loud enough for him to hear.

It's faint, given in Phil's regular mild tone, with the barest hint of amusement at the line of questioning, probably only noticeable to Clint.

"My intentions? My intentions are to take care of him, for as long as he lets me."

That sounds... that sounds really good to Clint, and he thinks he might let Phil take care of him for quite a long time.

**END**

 


End file.
